staring instead at her designer sandals, in blue and white leather
of the finest quality. I could feel Priscilla’s hands making pincer
movements.
‘What’s wrong?’ she said, looking down at her sandals.
‘They’re an unusual colour. I’ve never seen a blue quite like
it,’ I commented and walked out, leaving Priscilla studying her
footwear.
By the time I slumped back to my office, one of my brightest PhD students, Carl, had arrived for his monthly meeting.
I fought to banish the awful prospect of mediation with Priscilla as he spoke passionately about a dig on Lefnakos, an idyllic
Greek island he was due to visit this European summer. I had
been, and I shuddered at the memory. Several years ago, the day
after I’d flown out, the place had caved in, killing five tourists
and two archaeologists; I felt incalculably sad for them. I’d
been working in the very spot of the collapse, sitting just a day
before in my tiny air-conditioned tent, with all my high-tech
equipment for analysing the constitution of the glass fragments
that were painstakingly dug from the soil and handed over
like fragile babies to have their secrets slowly revealed. One
of my closest friends, Burton, had been badly hurt. He now
got around in a wheelchair, his once-powerful legs crushed
and useless, and had moved to Crete. I hadn’t been back and
was uneasy about Carl going, even though the area had been
reopened and declared safe. It was a freak accident, unlucky,
one that could happen anywhere at any time. Yet I still didn’t
want him there.
Carl had stopped and was watching expectantly.
‘You know my feelings about that dig.’